OK, I’m back. I was going to post this immediately after the last post, but I got a long email from my lucid dreaming buddy, and had to send her a long email back. Now that we’re temporarily on the subject of dreams again (how did that happen?), I’ll mention that three nights ago, I dreamed of flying as a passenger on a commercial jet through a fairly dense forest. Right outside the windows were tree branches. “This pilot must be very familiar with this route,” I rationalized.
The next night, I dreamed I’d been tapped to fly a one-person plane to try to break a speed record. I left the three-day orientation in the middle of the second day, however, after I remembered I don’t know how to fly a plane. If I’d realized I was dreaming, I would have said, “Heck, yeah, I’ll fly that plane!”
Flying in lucid dreams is very common. I think these two dreams were a hint that I’ll be flying one of these days, without a plane (and without LSD), though I’m sure my waking-life experience of being in a little plane not long ago contributed.
My mother tells me she has lately had the green leather chair that once was Grandma Helen’s refinished, and that I’m not allowed to sit on it ever again. Then, perhaps realizing that the alert listener might have perceived a subtle inhospitable tone, she said she was thinking of getting a plastic turd to put on the chair when she herself isn’t sitting on it. When she wishes to sit on the chair, she can just put the plastic turd in her pocket.
And there you have the difference between the impeccable hostess and the rest of us: she gets the point across tactfully, without hurting anyone’s feelings.
One recent day at work, after reviewing some important information about “K-Fed — Eating for Two?” along with the contextual material “Fat After Fame (see photos),” I went over to Whole Foods to get some vegetarian sushi, a vegan brownie, and a Bumble Bar. Before I went in, I asked the homeless guy outside if he wanted anything and this negotiation ensued:
“Some water would be great. Just a plastic bottle of water.”
“Mmm. I can’t buy anything that comes in a plastic bottle. Those things are environmental disasters. How about an Orangina?”
“Nooooo. I don’t really drink soda.”
“What about water in a glass bottle? It might be carbonated,” I cautioned.
“I don’t know if carbonated is so good. Non-carbonated would be better. Oh, also, it would really be good if it was kosher. You know? Have you ever noticed that little K?”
“Right, I’ll see what I can do.”
We were both pleased when I returned with Whole Foods brand kosher “Italian” still mineral water in a glass bottle. Since then, every time I pass that guy, I ask him what he wants and get it for him: a jar of peanut butter, water, Clif Bars. His name is Arnim and he has quite the affable, urbane manner. He’s often to be seen in his socks, which appear to be cleaner than my socks, despite my socks being inside my shoes.
I’ve begun my hospice volunteering career as of yesterday. The place I went to is billed as having a homey atmosphere, and before going there, I read reviews online that said it is lovely, tranquil, beautiful. It is not, unless one is comparing it to a grim hospital ward; then it is. I found it fairly shabby and depressing, though it’s obvious the intention is for it to be homelike, and I know much money and care went into trying to achieve that. It is a medical setting, full of the necessary equipment. Walking down the halls, you can see the ends of hospital beds and the emaciated limbs of those hours, days, no more than weeks from death.
I liked my guy right away. (I’ll call him A. The next person I visit will be B.) The hardest part was understanding what he was saying. I confess I was employing the technique of nodding and saying “Uh huh,” until he said, “You didn’t understand what I just said, did you?” That was embarrassing. I said, “No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” and then I closed his door partway to block the sound of whirring medical devices, and moved my chair so I could look straight at him and so he wouldn’t have to move his head to see me, and then I just concentrated as hard as I could, and got most of everything he was saying.
After a while, I noticed I was feeling some physical strain from leaning forward and tried to breathe and relax. Down the hall, I could hear someone who works there scolding another patient, “Mami, you pee-peed in the bed!” At that moment, I completely bonded with A.: I am on your side no matter what.
If someone who is dying pees in the bed, isn’t that more the responsibility of whoever is supposed to put on, monitor, and change diapers? Let’s hope those two people actually have a warm relationship and that it’s a running joke between them or something.
It made me think of the place where P. lives, which is staffed by a group of tiny Filipino ladies who speak almost no English, and who are always calm. They aren’t warm and gushy, necessarily, but they seem entirely peaceful and friendly, and I have never seen any of them even remotely irritated, even despite the woman who shrieks obscenities hour after hour. P. confirms that. He says they never get mad. (We still talk on the phone now and then, but he is no longer inclined to engage much, and our conversations are fairly brief, though he is always the one to call me.) He lucked out, ending up there.
I was only with A. for 40 minutes, because he got tired and wanted to rest. I was honored to be able to hear what is on the mind of someone who has so little time left, and I was also utterly weary by the time I departed. I pass two nice flower stores walking to this place, so I bought myself some flowers on the way home, irises, which I love, and my very favorite, pink and white carnations. What a nice smell they have. Tom and I were going to watch a DVD in the evening, but I was too exhausted.
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